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AN ANTHOLOGY OF 

RECENT POETRY 



AN ANTHOLOGY OF 

RECENT POETRY 



COMPILED BY 

L. D'O. WALTERS 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

HAROLD MONRO 



The year's at the spring. 
Pippa Passes 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 

1920 






COPYEIGHT, 1920, 

By DODD, mead AND COMPANY, Ino. 



>\ 




OCT 27 1020 
©CU601059 



INTRODUCTION 



The best poetry is always about the 
Earth itself and all the strange and lovely 
things that compose and inhabit it. When 
a 'great poet' sets himself the task of some 
'big theme,' he needs only to hold, as it 
were, a magnifying glass to the earth. 
We, who are born and live here, like very 
much to imagine other worlds, and we have 
even mentally constructed such another in 
which to exist after dying on this one; but 
we were careful to make it a glorified ver- 
sion of our own earth with everything we 
most love here intensified and improved to 
the utmost stretch of human imagination. 

To each man his 'best poetry' is that 
which he is able most to enjoy. The first 
object of poetry is to give pleasure. Pleas- 
ure is various, but it cannot exist where 
the emotions or the imagination have not 



INTRODUCTION 

been powerfully stirred. Whether it be 
called sensual or intellectual, pleasure can- 
not be willed. It is impossible to feel 
happy because one wants to feel happy, or 
sad because one wishes to feel sad. But 
such bodily or mental conditions may be in- 
duced from outside through a natural 
agency such as poetry, or music. 

,Now those dreary people who would 
maintain that poetry should deal (some say 
exclusively) with what they call 'big 
themes,' or 'the larger life,' are merely ad- 
vocating more use of the magnifying glass 
as against intensive cultivation of the nat- 
ural eye. The poet is essentially he who 
examines carefully, and learns to know 
fully, every detail of common life. He 
seeks to name in a variety of manners, and 
to define, the objects about him, to com- 
pare them with other objects, near or re- 
mote, and to find, for the mere sake of en- 
joyment, wonderful varieties of description 
and comparison. When he imagines better 
places than his earth, or invents gods, the 
impersonation and combination of the fortu- 



IMRODUCTIOX 

nate qualities in man. he is then using the 
magnifying glass with talent, occasionally 
with rare genius. But the poet who seeks, 
without genius, to magnify is simply a fool 
who sees even-thing too big. and boasts, in 
the loudest voice he can raise, of his dis- 
eased eyesight. 

One of the peculiarities, or perhaps 
rather die essential qualit\-. of tlie lyrical 
poetn' of to-day is a minute concentration 
on tlie objects immediately near it and an 
anxious carefulness to describe those in the 
most appropriate and satisfacton- terms. 
Thus it is often accused of a neglect to 
sublimate the emotions, and many critics 
have been at pains to suggest tliat this af- 
fection for the nearest and that careful 
description of natural events denotes a 
smalhiess of mental range. Be it noted, 
however, that the eye which does not look 
too far often sees most. It is remarkable 
that English lyrical poetr}- should have 
learnt in this period of religious uncer- 
taint\- to clasp itself at least to a reality 
that cannot be questioned or doubted. So 
-Cvii> 



INTRODUCTION 

far its faith reaches. It expresses a trust- 
fulness in what it can definitely perceive, it 
hardly ventures outside the circles of hu- 
man daily experience, and in this capacity 
it reveals an excellence of many kinds, 
sincerity often, and, at worst, a playfulness 
which, if ephemeral, is amusing at any rate 
to those whom it is intended to amuse, and 
appropriately irritating to those whom it 
wants to annoy. 

But the most noticeable characteristic of 
the verse of our present moment is its dis- 
like of the aloofness generally associated 
with English poetry. About twice a cen- 
tury language consolidates: phrases, which 
were once soft and new, harden with use; 
words, once of a ringing beauty, become 
dry and hollow through excessive repeti- 
tion. This state of language is not much 
noticed by people who have no special use 
for it beyond the expression of daily needs. 
Moreover, they make new colloquial words 
for themselves as required without fore- 
thought or difficulty. Poets, however, must 
consciously search for new words, and a 
-Cviii^ 



INTRODUCTION 

tired condition of their language is to them 
a great difficulty. The Victorians were ab- 
solute spendthrifts of words: no vocabulary 
could keep pace with their recklessness; 
they bequeathed a language almost ruined 
for sentimental purposes — words and 
phrases had acquired either such an aloof- 
ness that for a long time no one any more 
would trouble to reach up to them, or had 
become so thin and common that to use 
them would have been something like hack- 
sawing a piece of cotton. 

Now in the anthology which follows 
we may notice a characteristic escape 
from these difficulties. Words have been 
brought down from their high places and 
compelled into ordinary use. This has 
been accomplished not so much through 
any new familiarity with the words them- 
selves as by a certain naturalness in the 
attitude of the people employing them. 
Rupert Brooke's "Great Lover" is an ex- 
ample. 

In short, these are the chief reasons why 
present-day poetry is readable and enter- 
-Cix^ 



INTRODUCTION 

taining — that it deals with familiar sub- 
jects in a familiar manner; that, in doing 
so, it uses ordinary words literally and as 
often as possible; that it is not aloof or 
pretentious; that it refuses to be bullied by- 
tradition: its style, in fact, is itself. 



II 

If an excuse is to be sought for the addi- 
tion of this one more to the large number 
of existent collections of recent poetry, let 
it be in the nature of an explanation rather 
than an apology. Good, or even repre- 
sentative, poetry requires, in fact, no apol- 
ogy, but where the poems of some thirty- 
two different authors have been extracted 
from their books and placed side by side in 
one collection, a discussion of the apparent 
aims of the anthologist may be interesting, 
and will perhaps lead to a fuller enjoyment 
of the collection thus produced. 

Some readers approach a volume of 
poems to criticize it, others with the object 
of gaining pleasure. To give pleasure is 
-Cx> 



INTRODUCTION 

assuredly the object of this volume. More- 
over, it is adapted to the tastes of almost 
any age, from ten to ninety, and may be 
read aloud by grandchild to grandparent 
as suitably as by grandparent to grand- 
child. It is an anthology of Poems, not of 
Names. For instance, though Thomas 
Hardy is on the list, the lyric chosen to 
represent him is actually more character- 
istic of the book itself than of the mind of 
that great and aged poet. It is, in fact, 
Christian in atmosphere. It is not a typ- 
ical specimen of Mr. Hardy's style. It 
shows him in that occasional rather sad 
mood of regret for a lost superstition. It 
is not the best of Hardy, but rather a poem 
admirably suited to the book, which also 
happens, as by chance, to be by the author 
of "The Dynasts" and "Satires of Circum- 
stances." 

Ill 

The collection as a whole is modern, and 
all except eight of its authors are living 
and writing. Of those eight, five died as 
-Cxi^ 



INTRODUCTION 

soldiers in the European war, and are 
represented mainly by what is known as 
'war-poetry.' Otherwise such poetry is 
fortunately absent. This absence may be 
justified by the fact that most of the verse 
written on the subject of the War turns 
out, surveyed in cooler blood, to be, as any 
sound judge of literature must always 
have known, definitely and unmistakably 
bad. Much of it is by now, or should be, 
repudiated by its authors. It was too often 
"the spontaneous overflow of powerful 
feelings"; it too seldom originated from 
"emotion recollected in tranquillity." 

Rupert Brooke's sonnets "The Dead" 
and "The Soldier" were popular almost 
from their first publication. They belong 
undoubtedly to the best traditions of Eng- 
lish poetry. Julian Grenfell's "Into Bat- 
tle," and, in a lesser degree, the "Home 
Thoughts from Levantie" of Edward Wynd- 
ham Tennant, have acquired popularity 
among a larger number of folk than can be 
included in the general term 'literary cir- 
cles.' Neither of the composers of these 
-Cxii^ 



INTRODUCTION 

verses was a professional poet. Both were 
men of attractive personality and strong 
feeling, with education, taste, and an oc- 
casional impulse to write gracefully. In- 
trinsically either poem might as easily have 
been inspired by an Indian frontier raid as 
by a European war. They do not affect 
the traditions of English poetry by subject 
or by form. It will be found, as the years 
pass, that always fewer 'war-poems' can 
still be read with pleasure, the incidents 
which gave rise to them having become dim 
in human memory. And these will not be 
read because of their association with die 
Great War, but for their qualities as poems 
and their power to stir enjoyment or sur- 
prise in the reader. 

Consider those four melancholy lines by 
which Edward Thomas is here represented, 
remarkable for their concentration and for 
the crowd of images they can suggest. At 
present the words "where all that passed 
are dead" alone associates this poem with 
the War. But death comes through so 
many causes, that twenty years from now a 
-Cxiii^ 



INTRODUCTION 

footnote would be needed if it were desired 
to emphasize that association. 

J. E. Flecker's "Dying Patriot," one of 
his three poems in this book, was written 
in 1914 in Switzerland, where he was dying 
of consumption. It is certainly less a 
'war-poem' than the same author's "War 
Song of the Saracens." 

The verses entitled "A Petition," by R. 
E. Vernede, are of a different kind. They 
are written in conventional Henley-Kip- 
lingese, and contain too many incidents of 
a type of poetic expression that has been 
used to excess, as: "wider than all seas," 
"to front the world," "quenchless hope," 
"All that a man might ask thou hast given 
me, England." They are, nevertheless, 
useful in the collection as a set-off against 
the other 'war-poems' and an instance of 
the more ephemeral type of patriotic verse. 

Thus it would appear that the anthologist 

has displayed wisdom when including in 

this volume only few pieces that may be 

associated with the War, and those few 

-Cxiv)}- 



INTRODUCTION 

(with one exception) on the score of their 
literary merit, and for no other reason. 



IV 

Poets of to-day write individually less 
than their predecessors, and most of them 
are satisfied to publish only a proportion 
of what they write. None of the eight re- 
ferred to above left us any great bulk of 
verse. Four at least, however, are becom- 
ing daily better known to the reading pub- 
lic, and, of these, Rupert Brooke and J. E. 
Flecker have already their dozens of con- 
scious or unconscious imitators. The form, 
rhythm, or Eastern atmosphere of Flecker's 
poetry, the cynicism and wit of Brooke's, re- 
cur somewhere diluted in the verse of almost 
every young undergraduate. Neither Li- 
onel Johnson nor Mary Coleridge have ever 
become so well known or received so much 
attention from the average plagiarist, while 
the reputation of Edward Thotmas has been 
of slow and uncertain growth. Johnson's 
-Cxv^ 



INTRODUCTION 

poetry is too intellectual for the average 
writer. The wonderful, small lyrics of 
Mary Coleridge are esoteric rather than 
general. Nevertheless, this anthology in- 
cludes, most advisedly, a good poem by 
Johnson, one indeed which has had a quiet, 
but strong, influence on modem lyrical 
poetry, namely, the Lines to the Statue of 
King Charles at Charing Cross, and also a 
charming impression by Mary Coleridge. 

"Street Lanterns" is a good example of 
that poetry of close observation to which 
reference has already been made. It is a 
small, careful description of a London 
scene. It assumes that the reader has ob- 
served as much, and that he will enjoy to 
be reminded and brought back for a mo- 
ment in imagination to autumn and street- 
mending. The advocate of 'big themes* 
will inevitably condemn such verse, for the 
poet has aimed at neither size nor grandeur, 
has indeed sought rather to diminish her 
subject than enlarge it. 



-Cxvi!}- 



INTRODUCTION 



This anthology, it has been remarked 
above, is one rather of particular poems 
than of well-known authors. Several 
names of repute are not to be found in 
the index. William Watson is only repre- 
sented by "April," a little catch that might 
come to any man of feeling on a spring 
walk. To think in terms of these verses is 
at once not to mind having left an umbrella 
at home. Hilaire Belloc gives a sharp im- 
pression of early rising; he also sings in a 
great voice all the glories of his favourite 
part of England. W. H. Davies brings 
sheep across the Atlantic, and he talks to a 
kingfisher. Mrs. Meynell contributes that 
well-known description of a pure and se- 
rene mind, also two London poems, of 
which one is the lovely "November Blue." 
John Masefield is not to be read in his best 
style, but the three poems we find here are 
thoroughly English, full of the love of the 
island soil and of its sea, and are probably 
in the book for that reason. So much for 
-Cxvii^ 



INTRODUCTION 

some of the well-known contributors. Side 
by side with them we find the unknown 
name of H. H. Abbott, whose "Black and 
White" is a sketch of remarkable clarity 
and interest. 

Death, so favourite a subject with poets, 
is seldom allowed to figure in this book. 
Betsey-Jane would insist on going to 
Heaven, but is told, in the charming verses 
by Helen Parry Eden, that it simply 
"would not do." The whole book is too 
full of pleasure and the experience of 
being alive: Betsey- Jane should read it. 
She might remember all her life the advice 
given on page 98, and be saved hundreds 
of pounds in lawyers' bills when she is 
grown up. 

Let the reader turn to page 92. Here 
is the style in which good poetry prefers to 
teach, and by which it achieves more in 
eleven lines than a Martin Tupper in 
11,000. Mr. Pepler has written down only 
one sentence, charmingly improved by a 
series of most natural rhymes. It is a 
very nasty hit at the lawyer. He does not 
-Cxviii)}- 



INTRODUCTION 

tell him he is not a 'gentleman,' or any- 
thing so strong as that. He pays him what 
might be taken for a compliment. He as- 
sumes that he does understand his own job. 
Then he enumerates the things he does not 
understand. He attaches no blame: he 
makes a statement only; one that the lawyer 
certainly will not think worth arguing, 
but that his client may advisedly take to 
heart. 

Ralph Hodgson's "Stupidity Street" 
argues in somewhat the same manner. It 
does not suggest that anyone should become 
vegetarian, or that it is wrong to kill birds. 
It names a street and gives a reason for 
doing so. It is an angry little poem, but 
impersonal. 

"The Bells of Heaven," by the same au- 
thor, simply chances a hint that something 
might happen if something else did. It is 
a suggestion only, but made by one who 
knows what he thinks, and how to think it. 
Into a few lines a whole philosophy is con- 
centrated. 

Thus Pepler or Ralph Hodgson nudge 
-Cxix^ 



INTRODUCTION 

people's arms and draw attention to tradi- 
tional stupidities. 

Walter De la Mare puts the children to 
sleep with "Nod," or bewitches them with 
the Mad Prince's Song; or he takes us to 
an Arabia which never existed, but is one 
of those countries more beautiful than any 
we know, and therefore we love to im- 
agine it. 

Look at that full moon on page 25, 
which Dick saw 'one night.' Here is the 
possible experience of man, woman, child, 
dog, fox, bear — or even nightingale — all 
concentrated into the shortest and plainest 
account of something that happened to 
Dick. He and Betsey-Jane, though quite 
different in kind, belong to the same world. 
Betsey-Jane is plainly more romantic than 
Dick. 

But, talking of the moon, we may turn 
back to Mr. Chesterton on page 7. Here 
we find something incongruous in the col- 
lection: a poem that wishes deliberately to 
strike a note. The donkey is a much better 
fellow than Mr. Chesterton seems to think: 
-Cxx> 



INTRODUCTION 

he does not ask for glorification nor would 
he utter that boast of the last two lines. 
Would a man not rather "go with the wild 
asses to Paradise" than have the case for 
the donkey pleaded before him in this ob- 
trusive manner? 

Turn back two pages and you will find: 

"For the good are always the merry, 
Save by an evil chance. 
And the merry love the fiddle, 
And the merry love to dance." 

This, by W. B. Yeats, represents a much 
pleasanter type of thought. In these verses 
of the Irish poet we have the gaiety of a 
man who, knowing all about religion, can 
afford not to be sentimental. And here is 
the spirit of the book. 

The happiness of those who love the 
earth is so different from the pleasure by 
proxy of those that abide it in the idea of 
going to some Heaven afterward. Mr. 
Yeats' "Fiddler of Dooney" is that type of 
fellow who accepts the symbolism of a na- 
tional religion only in so far as it may help 
-Cxxi^ 



INTRODUCTION 

him to enjoy the condition of being alive. 
And in his "Lake Isle of Innisfree" he 
imagines a Paradise which is of the eartli 
only. And he takes you there by reason of 
his own longing. 

VI 

This anthology, as a whole, is romantic; 
its language is simple; its philosophy is 
that of everyday life, and is entirely undis- 
turbing. It contains a large proportion of 
poems by authors who write more particu- 
larly for children, such as P. R. Chalmers, 
Rose Fyleman, Queenie Scott-Hopper, and 
Marion St. John Webb, or of children's 
poems by authors who do not actually spe- 
cialize in that style, such as "The Ragwort," 
by Frances Comford; "Cradle Song," by 
Sarojini Naidu; "Check," by James Steph- 
ens, and others. Two of its authors remain 
necessarily unmentioned here, namely, the 
compiler of the book and the writer of this 
introduction. 

Some people make it their business to 
-Cxxii^ 



INTRODUCTION 

pick anthologies to pieces, and they seem 
to enjoy themselves. "Why is this in- 
cluded?" they cry; "Why is that left out?" 
— a form of criticism nearly always beside 
the point. Inclusion or exclusion are in 
the taste and discretion of the anthologist. 
This Introduction may, it is hoped, stim- 
ulate the reader of the poems which follow 
to think about them carefully in their rela- 
tion to each other, and in their relation to 
English poetry as a whole. For though it 
has frequently been emphasized that the ob- 
ject of poetry (and particularly of lyrical 
poetry) is to give pleasure, it should never- 
theless be addded that intellectual pleasure 
cannot be gathered at random, or without 
certain preparation of the mind to receive 
it. 

Harold Monro. 



-Cxxiii^ 



CONTENTS 

Arranged under names of Authors 

PAGE 

Abbott, H. H. 

Black and White Ill 

Anderson, J. Redwood 

The Bridge 99 

Allotments 102 

Belloc, Hilaire 

The Early Morning 8 

The South Country 9 

Brady, E. J. 

A Ballad of the Captains 19 

Brooke, Rupert 

The Dead 32 

The Great Lover 34 

The Soldier 40 

Chalmers, P. R. 

If I had a Broomstick 51 

Roundabouts and Swings 52 

Chesterton, G. K. 
The Donkey 7 

Coleridge, Mary E. 

Street Lanterns 96 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CoRNFORD, Frances 

In France 47 

The Ragwort 48 

Davies, W. H. 

The Kingfisher 63 

Sheep 64 

De la Mare, Walter 

Arabia 23 

Full Moon 25 

Nod 26 

The Song of the Mad Prince ... 28 

Drinkwater, John 

A Town Window 55 

Eden, Helen Parry 

To Betsey-Jane, on Her Desiring to go 
Incontinently to Heaven .... 98 

Flecker, James E. 

Brumana 56 

The Dying Patriot 57 

November Eves 60 

Fyleman, Rose 

Alms in Autumn 83 

I Don't Like Beetles 85 

Wishes 86 

Gibson, W. W. 

Sweet as the Breath of the Whin ... 91 

Graves, Robert 
Star-Talk ......... 61 

-Cxxvi> 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Grenfell, Julian 

Into Battle y . . 69 

Hardy, Thomas 

The Oxen 113 

Hodgson, Ralph 

The Bells of Heaven 77 

The Song of Honour 78 

Stupidity Street 80 

HooLEY, Teresa 
Sea-Foam 108 

Johnson, Lionel 

By the Statue of King Charles at Charing 
Cross 42 

Mackenzie, Margaret 

To the Coming Spring 81 

McLeod, Irene 

Lone Dog 49 

Masefield, John 

Sea Fever 12 

Tewkesbury Road 14 

The West Wind ....... 16 

Meynell, Alice 

A Dead Harvest 29 

November Blue 30 

The Shepherdess 31 

Monro, Harold 

Overheard on a Saltmarsh .... 72 
A Flower Is Looking Through the Groimd 74 

Man Carrying Bale 75 

-Cxxvii^ 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Naidu, Sarojini 

Cradle-Song 6 

Pepler, H. D. C. 

The Law the Lawyers Know About . . 92 
Scott-Hopper, Queenie 

Very Nearly! 87 

What the Thrush Says 88 

Stephens, James 

Check 45 

When the Leaves Fall 46 

Tennant, E. W. 

Home Thoughts in Laventie .... 66 
Thomas, E. 

The Cherry Trees 76 

Vernede, R. E. 

A Petition 109 

Walters, L. D'O. 

All Is Spirit and Part of Me . . . . 93 

Seville 94 

Watson, Sir William 

April 1 

Webb, Marion St. John 

The Sunset Garden 90 

Yeats, W. B. 

The Fiddler of Dooney 2 

The Lake Isle of Innisfree .... 4 

Young, Francis Brett 
February 106 

-{;xxviii> 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

For their kindly permission to use copyright 
poems the Editor is deeply indebted to: 

The Authors — H. H. Abbott, Hilaire Belloc, 
P. R. Chalmers, G. K. Chesterton, Frances Corn- 
ford, W. H. Davies, Walter De la Mare, John 
Drinkwater, Rose Fyleman, W. W. Gibson, 
Robert Graves, Ralph Hodgson, Teresa Hooley, 
Margaret Mackenzie, Irene McLeod, John Mase- 
field, Alice Meynell, Harold Monro, Sarojini 
Naidu, H. D. C. Pepler, James Stephens, Sir 
William Watson, Marion St. John Webb, and 
W. B. Yeats. 

The Literary Executors of Rupert Brooke, 
Mary E. Coleridge (Sir Henry Newbolt), James 
Elroy Flecker (Mrs, Flecker), Julian Grenfell 
(Lady Desborough), Lionel Johnson (Mr. Elkin 
Mathews), Edward Wyndham Tennant (Lady 
Glenconner), Edward Thomas (Messrs. Selwyn 
and Blount), R. E. Vernede. 

And the following Publishers, in respect of 
the poems selected: 

Messrs. Burns and Gates, Ltd. 
Alice Meynell: Collected Poems. 
-Cxxix^ 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Messrs. Constable and Co., Ltd. 

Walter De la Mare: The Listeners, Peacock 
Pie. 

Messrs. J. M. Dent and Sons, Ltd. 
G. K. Chesterton: The Wild Knight. 

Messrs. Duckworth and Co. 
Hilaire Belloc: Verses. 

Mr. A. C. Fifield 

W. H. Davies: Collected Poems. 

Messrs. George G. Harrap and Co., Ltd. 
E. J. Brady : The House of the Winds. 
Queenie Scott-Hopper: Pull the Bobbin. 
Marion St. John Webb: The Littlest One. 

The Macmillan Company, New York 
John Masefield: Ballads and Poems. 

Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston 
John Drinkwater: Poems by John Drinkwater. 

Mr. W. Heinemann, London, and the John Lane 
Company, New York 
Sarojini Naidu: The Golden Threshold. 

Mr. John Lane, London, and the John Lane Com- 
pany, New York 

Helen Parry Eden : Bread and Circuses. 

Edward Wyndham Tennant, by Pamela Glen- 
conner. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Messrs. Macmillan and Co., Ltd., London, and 
The Macmillan Company, New York 

W. W. Gibson: Whin. 

Ralph Hodgson: Poems. 

J. Stephens: The Adventures of Seumas Beg, 
Songs from the Clay. 

W. B. Yeats: Poems: Second Series. 

Messrs. Maunsel and Co. 

P. R. Chalmers: Green Days and Blue Days. 

Poetry Bookshop 

H. H. Abbott: Black and White. 
Frances Cornford: Spring Morning. 
R. Graves: Over the Brazier. 

Messrs. Sands and Co. 

M. Mackenzie: The Station Platform and 
Other Poems. 

Mr. Martin Seeker 

J. E. Flecker: Collected Poems. 
Francis Brett Young: Poems, 1916-1918. 

Messrs. Selwyn and Blount, London, and Messrs. 
Henry Holt & Company, New York 
Edward Thomas: Poems. 

Messrs. Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd. 

J. Redwood Anderson: Walls and Hedges. 
Rupert Brooke: 1914 and Other Poems. 
-Cxxxi> 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Messrs. T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd. 
W. B. Yeats: Poems. 

The John Lane Company, New York 
Rupert Brooke: 1914 and Other Poems. 



-Cxxxii^ 



An Anthology of 
Recent Poetry 




AN ANTHOLOGY OF 
RECENT POETRY 

APRIL 

IPRIL, April, 
Laugh thy girlish laughter; 
Then, the moment after. 
Weep thy girlish tears! 
April, that mine ears 
Like a lover greetest, 
If I tell thee, sweetest, 
All my hopes and fears, 

April, April, 
Laugh thy golden laughter. 
But, the moment after. 
Weep thy golden tears. 

WILLIAM WATSON 



<l> 




THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY 

I HEN I play on my fiddle in Dooney, 
Folk dance like a wave of the sea ; 
My cousin is priest in Kilvamet, 
My brother in Moharabuiee. 

I passed my brother and cousin: 

They read in their books of prayer; 

I read in my book of songs 
I bought at the Sligo fair. 

When we come at the end of time, 

To Peter sitting in state. 
He will smile on the three old spirits, 

But call me first through the gate; 

For the good are always the merry, 

Save by an evil chance, 
And the merry love the fiddle. 

And the merry love to dance: 

<2> 



RECENT POETRY 

And when the folk there spy me, 
They will all come up to me. 

With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney!" 
And dance like a wave of the sea. 

W. B. YEATS 



<3> 



THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE 

WILL arise and go now, and go to 

Innisfree, 
And a small cabin build there, of clay 
and wattles made; 
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for 
the honey bee, 

And live alone in the bee-loud glade. 

And I shall have some peace there, for 

peace comes dropping slow. 
Dropping from the veils of the morning to 

where the cricket sings; 
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a 
purple glow. 

And evening full of the linnet's 
wings. 

I will arise and go now, for always, night 

and day, 
I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds 

by the shore; 

-C4> 



RECENT POETRY 

While I stand on the roadway, or on the 
pavements grey, 

I hear it in the deep heart's core. 

W. B. YEATS 



-CS^ 




CRADLE-SONG 

'ROM groves of spice, 
O'er fields of rice, 
Athwart the lotus-stream, 
I bring for you, 
Aglint with dew, 
A little lovely dream. 

Sweet, shut your eyes. 

The wild fire-flies 

Dance through the fairy neem; ^ 

From the poppy-bole 

For you I stole 
A little lovely dream. 

Dear eyes, good-night. 

In golden light 

The stars around you gleam; 

On you I press 

With soft caress 
A little lovely dream. 

SAROJINI NAIDU 

1 A lilac-tree (Hindustani). 

<6> 




THE DONKEY 

HEN fishes flew and forests walked 
And figs grew upon thorn, 
Some moment when the moon was 
blood 
Then surely I was born; 

With monstrous head and sickening cry 

And ears like errant wings, 
The devil's walking parody 

On all four-footed things. 

The tattered outlaw of the earth, 

Of ancient crooked will; 
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb, 

I keep my secret still. 

Fools! For I also had my hour; 

One far fierce hour and sweet: 
There was a shout about my ears. 

And palms before my feet. 

G. K. CHESTERTON 

<7> 




THE EARLY MORNING 

!'HE moon on the one hand, the dawn 
on the other: 
The moon is my sister, the dawn is 
my brother. 
The moon on my left and the dawn on my 

right. 
My brother, good morning: my sister, good 
night. 

HILAIRE BELLOC 



<S> 




THE SOUTH COUNTRY 

I HEN I am living in the Midlands 
That are sodden and unkind, 
I light my lamp in the evening: 
My work is left behind ; 
And the great hills of the South Country 
Come back into my mind. 

The great hills of the South Country 

They stand along the sea; 
And it's there walking in the high woods 

That I could wish to be, 
And the men that were boys when I was a 
boy 

Walking along with me. 

The men that live in North England 

I saw them for a day: 
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, 

Their skies are fast and grey; 
From their castle-walls a man may see 

The mountains far away. 
<9> 



AN ANTHOLOGY OF 

The men that live in West England 

They see the Severn strong, 
A-rolling on rough water brown 

Light aspen leaves along. 
They have the secret of the Rocks, 

And the oldest kind of song. 

But the men that live in the South Country 

Are the kindest and most wise, 
They get their laughter from the loud surf, 

And the faith in their happy eyes 
Comes surely from our Sister the Spring 

When over the sea she flies; 
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet, 

She blesses us with surprise. 

I never get between the pines 

But I smell the Sussex air; 
Nor I never come on a belt of sand 

But my home is there. 
And along the sky the line of the Downs 

So noble and so bare. 

A lost thing could I never find, 
Nor a broken thing mend : 
-C10> 



RECENT POETRY 

And I fear I shall be all alone 

When I get towards the end. 
Who will be there to comfort me 

Or who will be my friend? 

I will gather and carefully make my friends 
Of the men of the Sussex Weald, 

They watch the stars from silent folds, 
They stiffly plough the field. 

By them and the God of the South Country 
My poor soul shall be healed. 

If I ever become a rich man. 

Or if ever I grow to be old, 
I will build a house with deep thatch 

To shelter me from the cold. 
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung 

And the story of Sussex told. 

I will hold my house in the high wood 

Within a walk of the sea. 
And the men that were boys when I was a 
boy 

Shall sit and drink with me. 

HILAIRE BELLOC 

-Cll> 



SEA FEVER 

MUST go down to the seas again, to 

the lonely sea and the sky, 
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star 
to steer her by; 
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song 

and the white sail's shaking, 
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a 
grey dawn breaking. 

I must go down to the seas again, for the 

call of the running tide 
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not 

be denied; 
And all I ask is a windy day with the white 

clouds flying, 
And the flung spray and the blown spume, 

and the sea-gulls crying. 

I must go down to the seas again, to the 
vagrant gipsy life, 

-C12> 



RECENT POETRY 

To the gull's way and the whale's way where 
the wind's like a whetted knife; 

And all I ask is a merry yam from a laugh- 
ing fellow-rover, 

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when 
the long trick's over. 

JOHN MASEFIELD 



<:i3> 



TEWKESBURY ROAD 

'T is good to be out on the road, and 
going one knows not where, 
Going through meadow and village, 
one knows not whither nor why; 
Through the grey light drift of the dust, 

in the keen cool rush of the air. 
Under the flying white clouds, and the 
broad blue lift of the sky. 

And to halt at the chattering brook, in the 

tall green fern at the brink 
Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, 

and the foxgloves purple and white ; 
Where the shy-eyed delicate deer come 

down in a troop to drink 
When the stars are mellow and large at the 

coming on of the night. 

0, to feel the beat of the rain, and the 
homely smell of the earth, 



RECENT POETRY 

Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past 

power of words; 
And the blessed green comely meadows are 

all a-ripple with mirth 
At the noise of the lambs at play and the 

dear wild cry of the birds. 

JOHN MASEFIELD 



<1S> 



THE WEST WIND 

'T'S a warm wind, the west wind, full 
of birds' cries; 
I never hear the west wind but tears 
are in my eyes. 
For it comes from the west lands, the old 

brown hills. 
And April's in the west wind, and daffodils. 

It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as 

tired as mine, 
Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's 

like wine. 
There is cool green grass there, where men 

may lie at rest, 
And the thrushes are in song there, fluting 

from the nest. 

"Will you not come home, brother? 

You have been long away. 
It's April, and blossom time, and white is 

the spray: 

<16> 



RECENT POETRY 

And bright is the sun, brother, and warm 

is the rain, 
Will you not come home, brother, home to 

us again? 

The young com is green, brother, where the 

rabbits run; 
It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm 

rain and sun. 
It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a 

man's brain, 
To hear the wild bees and see the merry 

spring again. 

Larks are singing in the west, brother, 

above the green wheat. 
So will you not come home, brother, and 

rest your tired feet? 
I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, 

sleep for aching eyes," 
Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of 

birds' cries. 

It's the white road westwards is the road I 
must tread 

-C17> 



RECENT POETRY 

To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest 

for heart and head, 
To the violets and the brown brooks and the 

thrushes' song 
In the fine land, the west land, the land 

where I belong. 

JOHN MASEFIELD 



-C18> 




A BALLAD OF THE CAPTAINS 

(HERE are now the Captains 

Of the narrow ships of old — 
Who with valiant souls went seeking 
For the Fabled Fleece of Gold; 
In the clouded Dusk of Ages, 

In the Dawn of History, 
When the ringing songs of Homer 
First re-echoed o'er the Sea? 

Oh, the Captains lie a-sleeping 
Where great iron hulls are sweeping 

Out of Suez in their pride; 
And they hear not, and they heed not. 
And they know not, and they need not 

In their deep graves far and wide. 

Where are now the Captains 

Who went blindly through the Strait, 
With a tribute to Poseidon, 

A libation poured to Fate? 
They were heroes giant-hearted, 

That with Terrors, told and sung, 



AN ANTHOLOGY OF 

Like blindfolded lions grappled, 

When the World was strange and young. 

Oh, the Captains brave and daring. 
With their grim old crews are faring 

Where our guiding beacons gleam; 
And the homeward liners o'er them — 
All the charted seas before them — 

Shall not wake them as they dream. 

Where are now the Captains 

From bold Nelson back to Drake, 
Who came drumming up the Channel, 

Haling prizes in their wake? 
Where are England's fighting Captains 

Who, with battle flags unfurled, 
Went a-rieving all the rievers 

O'er the waves of all the world? 

Oh, these Captains, all confiding 
In the strong right hand, are biding 

In the margins, on the Main; 
They are shining bright in story, 
They are sleeping deep in glory, 

On the silken lap of Fame. 
-C20> 



RECENT POETRY 

Where are now the Captains 

Who regarded not the tears 
Of the captured Christian maidens 

Carried, weeping, to Algiers? 
Yes, the swarthy Moorish Captains, 

Storming wildly 'cross the Bay, 
With a dead hidalgo's daughter 

As a dower for the Dey? 

Oh, those cruel Captains never 
Shall sweet lovers more dissever, 

On their forays as they roll; 
Or the mad Dons curse them vainly, 
As their baffled ships, ungainly, 

Heel them, jeering, to the Mole. 

Where are now the Captains 

Of those racing, roaring days. 
Who of knowledge and of courage. 

Drove the clippers on their ways — 
To the furthest ounce of pressure, 

To the latest stitch of sail, 
'Carried on' before the tempest 

Till the waters lapped the rail? 

-C21> 



RECENT POETRY 

Oh, the merry, manly skippers 
Of the traders and the clippers, 

They are sleeping East and West, 
And the brave blue seas shall hold 

them. 
And the oceans five enfold them 

In the havens where they rest. 

Where are now the Captains 

Of the gallant days agone? 
They are biding in their places. 

And the Great Deep bears no traces 
Of their good ships passed and gone. 

They are biding in their places. 
Where the light of God's own grace is, 

And the Great Deep thunders on. 

Yea, with never port to steer for, 
And with never storm to fear for. 

They are waiting wan and white. 
And they hear no more the calling 
Of the watches, or the falling 

Of the sea rain in the night. 

E. J. BRADY 

-C22> 




ARABIA 

'AR are the shades of Arabia, 

Where the Princes ride at noon, 
'Mid the verdurous vales and thick- 
ets, 
Under the ghost of the moon; 
And so dark is that vauhed purple 

Flowers in the forest rise 
And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom 
stars 
Pale in the noonday skies. 

Sweet is the music of Arabia 

In my heart, when out of dreams 
I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn 

Descry her gliding streams; 
Hear her strange lutes on the green banks 

Ring loud with the grief and delight 
Of the demi-silked, dark-haired Musicians 

In the brooding silence of night. 



-C23> 



RECENT POETRY 

They haunt me — her lutes and her forests; 

No beauty on earth I see 
But shadowed with that dream recalls 

Her loveliness to me: 
Still eyes look coldly upon me. 

Cold voices whisper and say — 
"He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, 

They have stolen his wits away." 

WALTER DE LA MARE 



-C24:}- 




FULL MOON 

NE night as Dick lay half asleep, 
Into his drowsy eyes 
A great still light began to creep 
From out the silent skies. 
It was the lovely moon's, for when 

He raised his dreamy head. 
Her rays of silver filled the pane 
And streamed across his bed. 
So, for awhile, each gazed at each — 

Dick and the solemn moon — 
Till, climbing slowly on her way. 
She vanished, and was gone. 

WALTER DE LA MARE 



-{:25> 




NOD 

OFTLY along the road of evening, 
In a twilight dim with rose, 
Wrinkled with age, and drenched 
with dew. 
Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. 



His drowsy flock streams on before him. 
Their fleeces charged with gold. 
To where the sun's last beam leans low 
On Nod the shepherd's fold. 

The hedge is quick and green with briar, 
From their sand the conies creep; 
And all the birds that fly in heaven 
Flock singing home to sleep. 

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses, 
Yet, when night's shadows fall. 
His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, 
Misses not one of all. 

-C26> 



RECENT POETRY 

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, 
The waters of no-more-pain, 
His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, 
"Rest, rest, and rest again." 

WALTER DE LA MARE 



-C27> 




THE SONG OF THE MAD PRINCE 

HO said, "Peacock Pie"? 

The old King to the sparrow: 
Who said, "Crops are ripe"? 
Rust to the harrow: 
Who said, "Where sleeps she now? 

Where rests she now her head. 
Bathed in eve's loveliness"? 
That's what I said. 

Who said, "Ay, mum's the word"? 

Sexton to willow: 
Who said, "Green dusk for dreams, 

Moss for a pillow"? 
Who said, "All Time's delight 

Hath she for narrow bed; 
Life's troubled bubble broken"? 

That's what I said. 

WALTER DE LA MARE 



-C28> 




A DEAD HARVEST 

IN KENSINGTON GARDENS 

'LONG the graceless grass of town 
They rake the rows of red and 
brown, — 
Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay 
Delicate, touched with gold and grey, 
Raked long ago and far away. 

A narrow silence in the park. 
Between the lights a narrow dark. 
One street rolls on the north; and one, 
Muffled, upon the south doth run; 
Amid the mist the work is done. 

A futile crop! for it the fire 
Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre. 
So go the town's lives on the breeze. 
Even as the sheddings of the trees; 
Bosom nor barn is filled with these. 

ALICE MEYNELL 

-{:29> 




NOVEMBER BLUE 

The golden tint of the electric lights seems to 
give a complementary colour to the air in the 
early evening. 

Essay on London 

HEAVENLY colour, London town 
Has blurred it from her skies; 
And, hooded in an earthly brown, 
Unheaven'd the city lies. 
No longer standard-like this hue 

Above the broad road flies; 
Nor does the narrow street the blue 
Wear, slender pennon-wise. 

But when the gold and silver lamps 

Colour the London dew, 
And, misted by the winter damps, 

The shops shine bright anew — 
Blue comes to earth, it walks the street. 

It dyes the wide air through; 
A mimic sky about their feet, 

The throng go crowned with blue. 

ALICE MEYNELL 

-C3o>: 




THE SHEPHERDESS 

:HE walks — the lady of my delight — 
A shepherdess of sheep. 
Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps 
them white; 
She guards them from the steep; 
She feeds them on the fragrant height, 
And folds them in for sleep. 

She roams maternal hills and bright, 

Dark valleys safe and deep. 
Into that tender breast at night 

The chastest stars may peep. 
She walks — the lady of my delight — 

A shepherdess of sheep. 

She holds her little thoughts in sight, 
Though gay they run and leap. 

She is so circumspect and right; 
She has her soul to keep. 

She walks — the lady of my delight — 
A shepherdess of sheep. 

ALICE MEYNELL 

-C31> 




THE DEAD 

I LOW out, you bugles, over the rich 
Dead! 
There's none of these so lonely 
and poor of old, 
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than 
gold. 
These laid the world away; poured out the 

red 
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to 
be 
Of work and joy, and that unhoped se- 
rene. 
That men call age; and those who would 
have been. 
Their sons, they gave, their immortality. 

Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for 
our dearth, 
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and 
Pain. 

<32> 



RECENT POETRY 

Honour has come back, as a king, to earth. 
And paid his subjects with a royal wage; 

And Nobleness walks in our ways again; 
And we have come into our heritage. 

RUPERT BROOKE 



<33> 



THE GREAT LOVER 

HAVE been so great a lover: filled 
my days 
So proudly with the splendour of 
Love's praise, 

The pain, the calm, and the astonishment, 

Desire illimitable, and still content. 

And all dear names men use, to cheat de- 
spair. 

For the perplexed and viewless streams 
that bear 

Our hearts at random down the dark of 
life. 

Now, ere the unthinking silence on that 
strife 

Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death 
so far. 

My night shall be remembered for a star 

That outshone all the suns of all men's 
days. 

Shall I not crown them with immortal praise 



RECENT POETRY 

Whom I have loved, who have given me, 

dared with me 
High secrets, and in darkness kneh to see 
The inenarrable godhead of delight? 
Love is a flame; — we have beaconed the 

world's night. 
A city: — and we have built it, these and I. 
An emperor: — we have taught the world to 

die. 
So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence, 
And the high cause of Love's magnificence. 
And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those 

names 
Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames, 
And set them as a banner, that men may 

know. 
To dare the generations, burn, and blow 
Out on the wind of Time, shining and 

streaming. . . . 
These I have loved: 

White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, 
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery 

dust; 
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the 

strong crust 

-C35> 



AN ANTHOLOGY OF 

Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food; 
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of 

wood; 
And radiant raindrops couching in cool 

flowers ; 
And flowers themselves, that sway through 

sunny hours, 
Dreaming of moths that drink them under 

the moon; 
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that 

soon 
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male 

kiss 
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is 
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the 

keen 
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine; 
The benison of hot water; furs to touch; 
The good smell of old clothes; and other 

such — 
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers, 
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that 

lingers 
About dead leaves and last year's ferns. . . . 
-C36> 



RECENT POETRY 

Dear names, 
And thousand other throng to me! Royal 

flames ; 
Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or 

spring; 
Holes in the ground; and voices that do 

sing; 
Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain, 
Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting 

train ; 
Firm sands; the little dulling edge of 

foam 
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes 

home; 
And washen stones, gay for an hour; the 

cold 
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen 

mould; 
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the 

dew; 
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, 

glossy-new; — 
And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools 

on grass; — 

-C37> 



AN ANTHOLOGY OF 

All these have been my loves. And these 

shall pass, 
Whatever passes not, in the great hour, 
Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have 

power 
To hold them with me through the gate of 

Death. 
They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor 

breath. 
Break the high bond we made, and sell 

Love's trust 
And sacramented covenant to the dust. 
— Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I 

shall wake. 
And give what's left of love again, and 

make 
New friends, now strangers. . . . 

But the best I've known. 
Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, 

is blown 
About the winds of the world, and fades 

from brains 
Of living men, and dies. 

Nothing remains. 

-C38> 



RECENT POETRY 

dear my loves, faithless, once again 
This one last gift I give: that after men 
Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed, 
Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, 
"He loved." 

RUPERT BROOKE 



-{:39> 



THE SOLDIER 

'F I should die, think only this of me: 
That there's some corner of a for- 
eign field 
That is for ever England. There 
shall be 
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed ; 
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made 
aware. 
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways 
to roam, 
A body of England's, breathing English 
air. 
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of 
home. 

And think, this heart, all evil shed away, 
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less 
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by 
England given; 
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as 
her day; 

-C40> 



RECENT POETRY 

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gen- 
tleness, 

In hearts at peace, under an English 
heaven. 

RUPERT BROOKE 



<4.1> 




BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES 
AT CHARING CROSS 

OMBRE and rich, the skies; 
Great glooms, and starry plains. 
Gently the night wind sighs; 
Else a vast silence reigns. 

The splendid silence clings 
Around me: and around 
The saddest of all kings 
Crowned, and again discrowned. 

Comely and calm, he rides 
Hard by his own Whitehall: 
Only the night wind glides: 
No crowds, nor rebels, brawl. 

Gone, too, his Court; and yet, 
The stars his courtiers are: 
Stars in their stations set; 
And every wandering star. 

-C42> 



RECENT POETRY 

Alone he rides, alone, 
The fair and fatal king: 
Dark night is all his own. 
That strange and solemn thing. 

Which are more full of fate: 
The stars; or those sad eyes? 
Which are more still and great: 
Those brows; or the dark skies? 

Although his whole heart yearn 
In passionate tragedy: 
Never was face so stern 
With sweet austerity. 

Vanquished in life, his death 
By beauty made amends: 
The passing of his breath 
Won his defeated ends. 

Brief life and hapless? Nay: 
Through death, life grew sublime. 
Speak after sentence? Yea: 
And to the end of time. 



RECENT POETRY 

Armoured he rides, his head 
Bare to the stars of doom: 
He triumphs now, the dead, 
Beholding London's gloom. 

Our wearier spirit faints. 
Vexed in the world's employ: 
His soul was of the saints; 
And art to him was joy. 

King, tried in fires of woe! 
Men hunger for thy grace: 
And through the night I go, 
Loving thy mournful face. 

Yet when the city sleeps; 
When all the cries are still: 
The stars and heavenly deeps 
Work out a perfect will. 

LIONEL JOHNSON 



-{:44> 




CHECK 

'HE night was creeping on the ground; 
She crept and did not make a sound 
Until she reached the tree, and then 

She covered it, and stole again 

Along the grass beside the wall. 

I heard the rustle of her shawl 
As she threw blackness everywhere 
Upon the sky and ground and air. 
And in the room where I was hid: 
But no matter what she did 
To everything that was without, 
She could not put my candle out. 

So I stared at the night, and she 
Stared back solemnly at me. 

JAMES STEPHENS 



-C45> 




WHEN THE LEAVES FALL 

?HEN the leaves fall off the trees 
Everybody walks on them: 
Once they had a time of ease 
High above, and every breeze 
Used to stay and talk to them. 

Then they were so debonair 

As they fluttered up and down; 
Dancing in the sunny air, 
Dancing without knowing there 
Was a gutter in the town. 

Now they have no place at all! 

All the home that they can find 
Is a gutter by a wall, 
And the wind that waits their fall 

Is an apache of a wind. 

JAMES STEPHENS 



-C46> 




IN FRANCE 

■•HE poplars in the fields of France 
Are golden ladies come to dance; 
But yet to see them there is none 
But I and the September sun. 

The girl who in their shadow sits 
Can only see the sock she knits; 
Her dog is watching all the day 
That not a cow shall go astray. 

The leisurely contented cows 
Can only see the earth they browse; 
Their piebald bodies through the grass 
With busy, munching noses pass. 

Alone the sun and I behold 
Processions crowned with shining gold — 
The poplars in the fields of France, 
Like glorious ladies come to dance. 

FRANCES CORNFORD 

-C47> 




THE RAGWORT 

?HE thistles on the sandy flats 
Are courtiers with crimson hats; 
The ragworts, growing up so straight, 
Are emperors who stand in state, 
And march about, so proud and bold, 
In crowns of fairy-story gold. 

The people passing home at night 
Rejoice to see the shining sight, 
They quite forget the sands and sea 
Which are as grey as grey can be, 
Nor ever heed the gulls who cry 
Like peevish children in the sky. 

FRANCES CORNFORD 



-C48> 



LONE DOG 

"M a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, 
and lone; 
I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunt- 
ing on my own; 
I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly 

sheep; 
I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat 
souls from sleep. 

I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet, 
A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my 

meat, 
Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate. 
But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff, 

and kick, and hate. 

Not for me the other dogs, running by my 

side. 
Some have run a short while, but none of 

them would bide. 

•C49> 



RECENT POETRY 

mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, 

the best, 
Wide wind, and wild stars, and the hunger 

of the quest! 

IRENE R. MCLEOD 



-C50> 



IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK 

T I had a broomstick, and knew how 
to ride it, 
I'd fly through the windows when Jane 
goes to tea. 
And over the tops of the chimneys I'd guide 

it. 
To lands where no children are cripples 

like me; 
I'd run on the rocks with the crabs and the 

sea. 
Where soft red anemones close when you 

touch ; 
If I had a broomstick, and knew how to 

ride it, 
If I had a broomstick — instead of a crutch! 

PATRICK R. CHALMERS 



-C51> 



ROUNDABOUTS AND SWINGS 

IT was early last September night to 
Framlin'am-on-Sea, 

An' 'twas Fair-day come to-morrow, 
an' the time was after tea. 
An' I met a painted caravan adown a dusty 

lane, 
A Pharaoh with his waggons comin' jolt an' 

creak an' strain; 
A cheery cove an' sunburnt, bold o' eye 

and wrinkled up, 
An' beside him on the splashboard sat a 

brindled tarrier pup, 
An' a lurcher wise as Solomon an' lean as 

fiddle-strings 
Was joggin' in the dust along 'is round- 
abouts and swings. 

"Goo'-day," said 'e; "Goo'-day," said I; 

"an' 'ow d'you find things go. 
An' what's the chance o' millions when you 

runs a travellin' show?" 



RECENT POETRY 

"I find," said 'e, "things very much as 'ow 

I've always found. 
For mostly they goes up and down or else 

goes round and round." 
Said 'e, "The job's the very spit o' what it 

always were, 
It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog 

don't catch a 'are; 
But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't 

no merchant king's. 
What's lost upon the roundabouts we pulls 

up on the swings! 

"Goo' luck," said 'e; "Goo' luck," said I; 
"you've put it past a doubt; 

An' keep that lurcher on the road, the game- 
keepers is out"; 

'E thumped upon the footboard an' 'e lum- 
bered on again 

To meet a gold-dust sunset down the owl- 
light in the lane; 

An' the moon she climbed the 'azels, while 
a nightjar seemed to spin 

That Pharaoh's wisdom o'er again, 'is sooth 
of lose-and-win; 



RECENT POETRY 

For "up an' down an' round," said 'e, "goes 

all appointed things, 
An' losses on the roundabouts means profits 

on the swings!" 

PATRICK R. CHALMERS 



<s4>y 




A TOWN WINDOW 

lEYOND my window in the night 
Is but a drab inglorious street, 
Yet there the frost and clean star- 
light 
As over Warwick woods are sweet. 

Under the grey drift of the town 
The crocus works among the mould 
As eagerly as those that crown 
The Warwick spring in flame and gold. 

And when the tramway down the hill 
Across the cobbles moans and rings, 
There is about my window-sill 
The tumult of a thousand wings. 

JOHN DRINKWATER 



<55> 




BRUMANA 

H shall I never never be home again? 
^Ml Meadows of England shining in the 
rain 

Spread wide your daisied lawns: your ram- 
parts green 
With briar fortify, with blossom screen 
Till my far morning — and streams that 

slow 
And pure and deep through plains and play- 
lands go, 
For me your love and all your kingcups 

store, 
And — dark militia of the southern shore. 
Old fragrant friends — preserve me the last 

lines 
Of that long saga which you sung me, pines, 
When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen tree 
I listened, with my eyes upon the sea. 

[Continued^ 
JAMES ELROY FLECKER 

<56> 




THE DYING PATRIOT 

I AY breaks on England down the 
Kentish hills, 
Singing in the silence of the 
meadow-footing rills, 
Day of my dreams, day! 

I saw them march from Dover, long ago. 
With a silver cross before them, singing 
low. 
Monks of Rome from their home where the 
blue seas break in foam, 
Augustine with his feet of snow. 

Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford 

town, 
— Beauty she was statue cold — there's blood 

upon her gown: 
Noon of my dreams, noon! 

Proud and godly kings had built her, long 

ago. 
With her towers and tombs and statues 
all arow, 

-C57> 



AN ANTHOLOGY OF 

With her fair and floral air and the love 
that lingers there, 
And the streets where the great men go. 

Evening on tlie olden, the golden sea of 

Wales, 
When the first star shivers and the last wave 

pales: 
evening dreams! 

There's a house tliat Britons walked in, 

long ago. 
Where now the springs of ocean fall and 
flow. 
And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies 
overhead 
Sway when the long winds blow. 

Sleep not, my country: though night is here, 

afar 
Your children of the morning are clamorous 

for war: 
Fire in the night, dreams! 

Though she send you as she sent you, 

long ago, 



RECENT POETRY 

South to desert, east to ocean, west to 

snow. 
West of these out to seas colder than the 

Hebrides I must go 
Where the fleet of stars is anchored and 

the young Star-captains glow. 

JAMES ELROY FLECKER 



-C59> 




NOVEMBER EVES 

OVEMBER Evenings! Damp and 

still 
They used to cloak Leckliampton 

hiU, 
And lie do'svn close on the grey plain, 
And dim the dripping window-pane. 
And send queer winds like Harlequins 
That seized our elms for violins 
And stiiick a note so sharp and low 
Even a child could feel the woe. 

Now fire chased shadow round the room; 
Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom: 
\^ e crept about like mice, while Nurse 
Sat mending, solemn as a hearse. 
And even our unlearned eyes 
Half closed ^vidi choking memories. 

Is it the mist or the dead leaves. 

Or the dead men — November eves? 

JAMES ELROY FLECKER 

-C60> 




STAR-TALK 

RE you awake, Gemelli, 
This frosty night?" 
"We'll be awake till reveille, 
Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli, 
"It's no good trying to go to sleep: 
If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep. 
But rest is hopeless to-night, 
But rest is hopeless to-night." 

"Are you cold too, poor Pleiads, 

This frosty night?" 
"Yes, and so are the Hyads: 
See us cuddle and hug," says the Pleiads, 
"All six in a ring: it keeps us warm: 
We huddle together like birds in a storm: 
It's bitter weather to-night. 
It's bitter weather to-night." 

"What do you hunt, Orion, 

This starry night?" 
"The Ram, the Bull and the Lion, 
And the Great Bear," says Orion, 



RECENT POETRY 

"With my starry quiver and beautiful belt 
I am trying to find a good thick pelt 
To warm my shoulders to-night, 
To warm my shoulders to-night." 

"Did you hear that, Great She-bear, 

This frosty night?" 
"Yes, he's talking of stripping me bare. 
Of my own big fur," says the She-bear. 
"I'm afraid of the man and his terrible ar- 
row: 
The thought of it chills my bones to the 
marrow, 

And the frost so cruel to-night! 

And the frost so cruel to-night!" 

"How is your trade, Aquarius, 

This frosty night?" 
"Complaints is many and various, 
And my feet are cold," says Aquarius, 
"There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales, 
And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails. 
And the pump has frozen to-night, 
And the pump has frozen to-night." 

ROBERT GRAVES 

-C62> 



THE KINGFISHER 

'T was the Rainbow gave thee birth, 
And left thee all her lovely hues; 
And, as her mother's name was Tears, 
So runs it in thy blood to choose 
For haunts the lonely pools, and keep 
In company with trees that weep. 

Go you and, with such glorious hues, 

Live with proud Peacocks in green parks; 

On lawns as smooth as shining glass, 
Let every feather show its mark; 

Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings 

Before the windows of proud kings. 

Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain; 

Thou hast no proud ambitious mind; 
I also love a quiet place 

That's green, away from all mankind; 
A lonely pool, and let a tree 
Sigh with her bosom over me. 

WILLIAM H. DAVIES 

-C63> 




SHEEP 

HEN I was once in Baltimore 

A man came up to me and cried, 
"Come, I have eighteen hundred 
sheep. 
And we will sail on Tuesday's tide. 

"If you will sail with me, young man, 
I'll pay you fifty shillings down; 

These eighteen hundred sheep I take 
From Baltimore to Glasgow town." 

He paid me fifty shillings down, 

I sailed with eighteen hundred sheep; 

We soon had cleared the harbour's mouth, 
We soon were in the salt sea deep. 

The first night we were out at sea 

Those sheep were quiet in their mind; 

The second night they cried with fear — 
They smelt no pastures in the wind. 

-{:64> 



RECENT POETRY 

They sniffed, poor things, for their green 
fields, 

They cried so loud I could not sleep: 
For fifty thousand shillings down 

I would not sail again with sheep. 

WILLIAM H. DAVIES 



<6^> 




HOME THOUGHTS IN LAVENTIE 

REEN gardens in Laventie! 
^.^^, Soldiers only know the street 
Where the mud is churned and 
splashed about 
By battle-wending-feet; 
And yet beside one stricken house there is a 
glimpse of grass, 
Look for it when you pass. 

Beyond the Church whose pitted spire 

Seems balanced on a strand 
Of swaying stone and tottering brick 
Two roofless ruins stand, 
And here behind the wreckage where the 
back-wall should have been 
We found a garden green. 

The grass was never trodden on, 

The little path of gravel 
Was overgrown with celandine. 

No other folk did travel 
-C66> 



RECENT POETRY 

Along its weedy surface, but the nimble- 
footed mouse 
Running from house to house. 

So all among the vivid blades 

Of soft and tender grass 
We lay, nor heard the limber wheels 
That pass and ever pass, 
In noisy continuity, until their stony rattle 
Seems in itself a battle. 

At length we rose up from this ease 

Of tranquil happy mind, 
And searched the garden's little length 
A fresh pleasaunce to find; 
And there, some yellow daffodils and jas- 
mine hanging high 
Did rest the tired eye. 

The fairest and most fragrant 

Of the many sweets we found, 
Was a little bush of Daphne flower 
Upon a grassy mound. 
And so thick were the blossoms set, and so 
divine the scent. 
That we were well content. 
-C67> 



RECENT POETRY 

Hungry for Spring I bent my head, 

The perfume fanned my face, 
And all my soul was dancing 
In that lovely little place, 
Dancing with a measured step from 
wrecked and shattered towns 
Away . . . upon the Downs. 

I saw green banks of daffodil. 
Slim poplars in the breeze. 
Great tan-brown hares in gusty March 
A-courting on the leas; 
And meadows with their glittering streams, 
and silver scurrying dace. 
Home — what a perfect place! 

EDWARD WYNDHAM TENNANT 



<6S> 




INTO BATTLE 

•>HE naked earth is warm with Spring, 
[^H And with green grass and bursting 
trees 
Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, 

And quivers in the sunny breeze; 
And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light, 

And a striving evermore for these; 
And he is dead who will not fight; 
And who dies fighting has increase. 

The fighting man shall from the sun 

Take warmth, and life from the glowing 
earth; 

Speed with the light-foot winds to run, 
And with the trees to newer birth; 

And find, when fighting shall be done, 
Great rest, and fullness after dearth. 

All the bright company of Heaven 
Hold him in their high comradeship, 

The Dog-Star and the Sisters Seven, 
Orion's Belt and sworded hip. 
-C69> 



AN ANTHOLOGY OF 

The woodland trees that stand together, 
They stand to him each one a friend, 

They gently speak in the windy weather; 
They guide to valley and ridges' end. 

The kestrel hovering by day, 

And the little owls that call by night, 
Bid him be swift and keen as they. 

As keen of ear, as swift of sight. 

The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, 
brother. 

If this be the last song you shall sing 
Sing well, for you may not sing another; 

Brother, sing." 

In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours, 
Before the brazen frenzy starts. 

The horses show him nobler powers; 
patient eyes, courageous hearts! 

And when the burning moment breaks, 
And all things else are out of mind, 
And only Joy of Battle takes 

Him by the throat, and makes him 
blind— 

<70> 



RECENT POETRY 

Though joy and blindness he shall know, 
Not caring much to know, that still. 

Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so 
That it be not the Destined Will. 

The thundering line of battle stands. 
And in the air Death moans and sings; 

But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, 
And Night shall fold him in soft wings. 

JULIAN GRENFELL 



-C71> 




OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH 

^YMPH, nymph, what are your beads? 
Green glass, goblin. Why do you 
stare at them? 
Give them me. 

No. 

Give them me. Give them me. 

No. 

Then I will howl all night in the reeds, 
Lie in the mud and howl for them. 

Goblin, why do you love them so? 

They are better than stars or water. 
Better than voices of winds that sing. 
Better than any man's fair daughter. 
Your green glass beads on a silver ring. 

-C72> 



RECENT POETRY 
Hush, I stole them out of the moon. 

Give me your beads. I desire them. 

No. 

I will howl in a deep lagoon 
For your green glass beads, I love them so. 
Give them me. Give them. 

No. 

HAROLD MONRO 



-C73> 




A FLOWER IS LOOKING THROUGH 
THE GROUND 

FLOWER is looking through the 
ground. 
Blinking at the April weather; 
Now a child has seen the flower: 
Now they go and play together. 

Now it seems the flower will speak, 
And will call the child its brother — 
But, oh strange forgetfulness! — 
They don't recognize each other. 

HAROLD MONRO 



-C74> 




MAN CARRYING BALE 

'HE tough hand closes partly on the 
load; 

Out of the mind, a voice 
Calls, "Lift!" and the arms, remembering 
well their work. 
Lengthen and pause for help. 
Then a slow ripple flows from head to foot 
While all the muscles call to one another: 
"Lift!" and the bulging bale 
Floats like a butterfly in June. 

So moved the earliest carrier of bales, 

And the same watchful sun 
Glowed through his body feeding it with 
light. 

So will the last one move. 
And halt, and dip his head, and lay his load 
Down, and the muscles will relax and trem- 
ble. 

Earth, you designed your man 

Beautiful both in labour and repose. 

HAROLD MONRO 




THE CHERRY TREES 

HE cherry trees bend over and are 
ij^gn shedding 

On the old road where all that passed 
are dead, 
Their petals, strewing the grass as for a 

wedding 
This early May mom when there is none 
to wed. 

EDWARD THOMAS 



<16> 




THE BELLS OF HEAVEN 

^WOULD ring the bells of Heaven 
The wildest peal for years, 
If Parson lost his senses 
And people came to theirs, 
And he and they together 
Knelt down with angry prayers 
For tamed and shabby tigers 
And dancing dogs and bears. 
And wretched, blind pit ponies, 
And little hunted hares. 

RALPH HODGSON 



<11> 



THE SONG OF HONOUR 

CLIMBED a hill as light fell short, 
And rooks came home in scramble 
sort. 
And filled the trees and flapped and fought 

And sang themselves to sleep; 
An owl from nowhere with no sound 
Swung by and soon was nowhere found, 
I heard him calling half-way round, 

Holloing loud and deep; 
A pair of stars, faint pins of light. 
Then many a star, sailed into sight, 
And all the stars, the flower of night, 

Were round me at a leap; 
To tell how still the valleys lay 
I heard a watch-dog miles away, 

And bells of distant sheep. 

I heard no more of bird or bell. 
The mastiff" in a slumber fell, 

I stared into the sky, 
As wondering men have always done 
-C78> 



RECENT POETRY 

Since beauty and the stars were one, 

Though none so hard as I. 
It seemed, so still the valleys were. 
As if the whole world knelt at prayer. 

Save me and me alone; 
So pure and wide that silence was 
I feared to bend a blade of grass. 

And there I stood like stone. 

[Continued] 

RALPH HODGSON 



-C79> 



STUPIDITY STREET 

SAW with open eyes 
Singing birds sweet 
Sold in the shops 

For the people to eat, 

Sold in the shops of 

Stupidity Street. 

I saw in vision 
The worm in the wheat, 
And in the shops nothing 
For people to eat; 
Nothing for sale in 
Stupidity Street. 

RALPH HODGSON 



<8oy 




TO THE COMING SPRING 

PUNCTUAL Spring! 

We had forgotten in this winter 
town 
The days of Summer and the long, long 

eves. 
But now you come on airy wing. 
With busy fingers spilling baby-leaves 
On all the bushes, and a faint green down 
On ancient trees, and everywhere 
Your warm breath soft with kisses 
Stirs the wintry air, 
And waking us to unimagined blisses. 
Your lightest footprints in the grass 
Are marked by painted crocus-flowers 
And heavy-headed daff"odils, 
While little trees blush faintly as you pass. 
The morning and the night 
You bathe with heavenly showers. 
And scatter scentless violets on the rounded 
hills. 



RECENT POETRY 

Drop beneath leafless woods pale primrose 

posies. 
With magic key, in the new evening light, 
You are unlocking buds that keep the roses ; 
The purple lilac soon will blow above the 

wall 
And bended boughs in orchards whitely 

bloom — 
We had forgotten in the Winter's gloom . . . 
Soon we shall hear the cuckoo call! 

MARGARET MACKENZIE 



-{:82> 




ALMS IN AUTUMN 

PINDLE-WOOD, spindle-wood, will 
you lend me, pray, 
A little flaming lantern to guide me 
on my way? 
The fairies all have vanished from the 

meadow and the glen, 
And I would fain go seeking till I find them 

once again. 
Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a 

light 
To find the hidden pathway in the darkness 
of the night. 

Ash-tree, ash-tree, throw me, if you please. 

Throw me down a slender branch of russet- 
gold keys. 

I fear the gates of Fairyland may all be 
shut so fast 

That nothing but your magic keys will ever 
take me past. 

-C83> 



RECENT POETRY 

I'll tie them to my girdle, and as I go 

along 
My heart will find a comfort in the tinkle 

of their song. 

Holly-bush, holly-bush, help me in my task, 
A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask: 
A pocketful of berries to thread in golden 

strands 
(I would not go a-visiting with nothing in 

my hands). 
So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so 

glossy bright. 
They'll set the realms of Fairyland all 

dancing with delight. 

ROSE FYLEMAN 



-C84> 



I DON'T LIKE BEETLES 

DON'T like beetles, tho' I'm sure 

they're very good, 
I don't like porridge, tho' my Nanna 
says I should; 
I don't like the cistern in the attic where I 

play, 
And the funny noise the bath makes when 
the water runs away. 

I don't like the feeling when my gloves are 

made of silk. 
And that dreadful slimy skinny stuff on top 

of hot milk; 
I don't like tigers, not even in a book, 
And, I know it's very naughty, but I don't 

like Cook! 

ROSE FYLEMAN 



<85> 



WISHES 

WISH I liked rice pudding, 

I wish I were a twin, 
I wish some day a real live fairy 
Would just come walking in. 

I wish when I'm at table 

My feet would touch the floor, 

I wish our pipes would burst next winter, 
Just like they did next door. 

I wish that I could whistle 

Real proper grown-up tunes, 
I wish they'd let me sweep the chimneys 

On rainy afternoons. 

I've got such heaps of wishes, 

I've only said a few; 
I wish that I could wake some morning 

And find they'd all come true ! 

ROSE FYLEMAN 

<86> 



VERY NEARLY! 

NEVER quite saw fairy-folk 

A-dancing in the glade. 
Where, just beyond the hollow oak, 
Their broad green rings are laid: 
But, while behind that oak I hid, 
One day I very nearly did! 

I never quite saw mermaids rise 

Above the twilight sea. 
When sands, left wet, 'neath sunset skies, 

Are blushing rosily: 
But — all alone, those rocks amid — 
One night I very nearly did! 

I never quite saw Goblin Grim 
Who haunts our lumber room 

And pops his head above the rim 
Of that oak chest's deep gloom: 

But once — when Mother raised the lid — 

/ very, very nearly did! 

QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER 

-C87> 




WHAT THE THRUSH SAYS 

\OME and see! Come and see/" 
The Thrush pipes out of the haw- 
thorn-tree: 
And I and Dicky on tiptoe go 
To see what treasures he wants to show. 
His call is clear as a call can be — 
And "Come and see!" he says: 
"Come and see!" 

^'Come and see! Come and see!" 
His house is there in the hawthorn-tree: 
The neatest house that ever you saw, 
Built all of mosses and twigs and straw: 
The folk who built were his wife and he — 
And "Come and see!" he says: 
"Come and see!" 

"Come and see! Come and see!" 
Within this house there are treasures three: 
So warm and snug in its curve they lie — 
-C88> 



RECENT POETRY 

Like three bright bits out of Spring's blue 

sky. 
We would not hurt them, he knows; not we! 
So "Come and see!" he says: 
"Come and see!" 

"Come and see! Come and see!" 
No thrush was ever so proud as he! 
His bright-eyed lady has left those eggs 
For just five minutes to stretch her legs. 
He's keeping guard in the hawthorn-tree, 
And "Come and see!" he says: 
"Come and see!" 

"Come and see! Come and see!** 

He has no fear of the boys and me. 

He came and shared in our meals, you 

know, 
In hungry times of the frost and snow. 
So now we share in his Secret Tree 
Where "Come and see!" he says: 
"Come and see!" 

QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER 



-C89> 



THE SUNSET GARDEN 

CAN see from the window a little 

brown house, 
And the garden goes up to the top of 
the hill. 
And the sun comes each day. 
And slips down away 
At the end of the garden an' sleeps there 

. . . until 
The daylight comes climbing up over the 
hill. 

I do wish I lived in the little brown house, 
Then at night I'd go out to the garden, an' 
creep 

Up . . . up . . . then I'd stop, 
An' lean over the top. 
At the end of the garden, an' so I could 

peep. 
And see what the sun looks like when it's 
asleep. 

MARION ST JOHN WEBB 

-C90> 




SWEET AS THE BREATH OF THE 
WHIN 

; WEET as the breath of the whin 
Is the thought of my love — 
Sweet as the breath of the whin 
In the noonday sun — 
Sweet as the breath of the whin 
In the sun after rain. 

Glad as the gold of the whin 
Is the thought of my love — 

Glad as the gold of the whin 
Since wandering's done — 

Glad as the gold of the whin 
Is my heart, home again. 

WILFRED WILSON GIBSON 



-C91> 




THE LAW THE LAWYERS KNOW 
ABOUT 

?HE law the lawyers know about 
Is property and land; 
But why the leaves are on the trees, 
And why the winds disturb the seas, 
Why honey is the food of bees, 
Why horses have such tender knees. 
Why winters come and rivers freeze, 
Why Faith is more than what one sees, 
And Hope survives the worst disease. 
And Charity is more than these. 

They do not understand. 

H. D. C. PEPLER 



-C92> 




ALL IS SPIRIT AND PART OF ME 

GREATER lover none can be, 
And all is spirit and part of me. 
I am sway of the rolling hills, 

And breath from the great wide plains; 

I am bom of a thousand storms. 

And grey with the rushing rains; 

I have stood with the age-long rocks. 

And flowered with the meadow sweet; 

I have fought with the wind-worn firs, 

And bent with the ripening wheat; 

I have watched with the solemn clouds, 

And dreamt with the moorland pools; 

I have raced with the water's whirl, 

And lain where their anger cools; 

I have hovered as strong-winged bird, 

And swooped as I saw my prey; 

I have risen with cold grey dawn, 

And flamed in the dying day; 

For all is spirit and part of me, 

And greater lover none can be. 

L. d'o. WALTERS 

-C93> 



SEVILLE 

KNOW not Seville, 
Yet in dreams I see 
The April roses 
Climb from tree to tree, 
And foam the houses 
Till they seem to me 
Great waves of blossom 
From a crimson sea. 

I know not Seville, 
Yet in dreams I see 
The drooping petals 
Falling languidly. 
And find the shadow 
Where the grass is red 
And white with roses 
On a sun- warmed bed! 

I know not Seville, 
Yet I feel the night 
Grow heavy scented, 
-C94> 



RECENT POETRY 

Starred with roses white, 
And low-toned singers, 
Up and down the street. 
Breathe only roses, 
Fallen at their feet. 

L. d'o. WALTERS 



-C95> 




STREET LANTERNS 

OUNTRY roads are yellow and 
brown. 
We mend the roads in London town. 



Never a hansom dare come nigh, 
Never a cart goes rolling by. 

An unwonted silence steals 
In between the turning wheels. 

Quickly ends the autumn day, 
And the workman goes his way. 

Leaving, midst the traffic rude. 
One small isle of solitude, 

Lit, throughout the lengthy night. 
By the little lantern's light. 

Jewels of the dark have we. 
Brighter than the rustic's be. 
-C96> 



RECENT POETRY 

Over the dull earth are thrown 
Topaz, and the ruby stone. 

MARY E. COLERIDGE 



<91> 




TO BETSEY- JANE, ON HER DESIRING 
TO GO INCONTINENTLY TO HEAVEN 

Y Betsey-Jane, it would not do. 
For what would Heaven make of 
you, 
A little, honey-loving bear. 
Among the Blessed Babies there? 

Nor do you dwell with us in vain 
Who tumble and get up again 
And try, with bruised knees, to smile — 
Sweet, you are blessed all the while 

And we in you: so wait, they'll come 
To take your hand and fetch you home, 
In Heavenly leaves to play at tents 
With all the Holy Innocents. 

HELEN PARRY EDEN 



-C98:> 




THE BRIDGE 

;ERE, with one leap, 
The bridge that spans the cutting; 
on its back 
The load 

Of the main-road, 
And under it the railway-track. 

Into the plains they sweep. 

Into the solitary plains asleep. 

The flowing lines, the parallel lines of 

steel — 
Fringed with their narrow grass, 
Into the plains they pass, 
The flowing lines, like arms of mute appeal. 

A cry 

Prolonged across the earth — a call 
To the remote horizons and the sky; 
The whole east rushes down them with its 
light, 

-C99> 



AN ANTHOLOGY OF 

And the whole west receives them, with its 

pall 
Of stars and night — 
The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel. 

And with the fall 

Of darkness, see! the red, 

Bright anger of the signal, where it flares 

Like a huge eye that stares 

On some hid danger in the dark ahead. 

A twang of wire — unseen 

The signal drops; and now, instead 

Of a red eye, a green. 

Out of the silence grows 

An iron thunder — grows, and roars, and 

sweeps, 
Menacing! The plain 
Suddenly leaps. 
Startled, from its repose — 
Alert and listening. Now, from the gloom 
Of the soft distance, loom 
Three lights and, over them, a brush 
Of tawny flame and flying spark — 
Three pointed lights that rush. 
Monstrous, upon the cringing dark. 
-C100> 



RECENT POETRY 

And nearer, nearer rolls the sound, 
Louder the throb and roar of wheels, 
The shout of speed, the shriek of steam; 
The sloping bank, 
Cut into flashing squares, gives back the 

clank 
And grind of metal, while the ground 
Shudders and the bridge reels — 
As, with a scream. 
The train, 

A rage of smoke, a laugh of fire, 
A lighted anguish of desire, 
A dream 

Of gold and iron, of sound and flight, 
Tumultuous roars across the night. 

The train roars past — and, with a cry, 
Drowned in a flying howl of wind, 
Half-stifled in the smoke and blind, 
The plain, 

Shaken, exultant, unconfined. 
Rises, flows on, and follows, and sweeps by, 
Shrieking, to lose itself in distance and the 
sky. 

J. REDWOOD ANDERSON 

-C101> 




ALLOTMENTS 

ONOTONOUS and regular 
And mournful the allotments lie, 
And night, 
As if to hide their misery from sight, 
Falls, fold on fold, from the cold winter 
sky. 

A stretch of wretched garden-land 
Backed by a row of tenements that cringe 
— Monotonous and regular — 
Upon the city's outer fringe. 

Between it and the pavement-edge 

Straggles a torn and ragged hedge; 

And, here and there about it, stand 

Rude sheds of planking smeared with tar; 

While, in a corner, a rough mast and spar 

Futters for flag 

A tattered filthiness of rag. 

There in this world of fog and smoke, 
— Monotonous and regular — 
-CIO2:}- 



RECENT POETRY 

Bent figures move about; 

They are the pitiable folk 

From their long day of toil let out — 

From their day-labour in the factory 

That looms, a square-cut menace on the 

sky, 
Near-by. 

Here, one will plant potatoes, row on row, 

— Monotonous and regular — 

Another, here, will grow 

Carrots and turnips, beans and peas, 

Or green and purple cabbages; 

While each will sow 

Nasturtium or sweet-pea — some flower to 

bring 
Him light and gladness in the spring. 

Though scarce shall tlie bud break, till 
from the air 

Damp soot shall fall to shroud it in de- 
spair 

Though every leaf 

Shall hide its hope in hoods of grief — 

Though no flower-scent shall purify 
-C103> 



AN ANTHOLOGY OF 

This stench of oil, this reek of smoke, 
Where a poor starved humanity, 
And its poor produce, starved and stultified, 
Grow side by side. 

So far from nature's first intent, 

So far from what the brown earth meant, 

So far from what the wind and wet. 

The seasons and the sun. 

In many an unlaborious field have done! 

And yet. 

When one of these poor folk 

Shall stand and gaze in summer's easier 

hours 
Upon the humbled beauty of his flowers, 

Not Adam in his Paradise, 

Beheld with more of worship in his eyes 

The first 

Rare rose that burst 

In lovely wonder to the skies. 

Monotonous and regular 

And mournful the allotments lie — 

While night, 

-C104> 



RECENT POETRY 

As if to hide their misery from sight, 
Falls, fold on fold, from the cold catafalque 
of sky. 

J. REDWOOD ANDERSON 



-C105> 




FEBRUARY 

^HE robin on my lawn 
He was the first to tell 
How, in the frozen dawn, 
This miracle befell. 
Waking the meadows white 
With hoar, the iron road 
Agleam with splintered light, 
And ice where water flowed: 
Till, when the low sun drank 
Those milky mists that cloak 
Hanger and hollied bank. 
The winter world awoke 
To hear the feeble bleat 
Of lambs on downland farms: 
A blackbird whistled sweet ; 
Old beeches moved their arms 
Into a mellow haze 
Aerial, newly-born: 
And I, alone, agaze. 
Stood waiting for the thorn 
To break in blossom white, 
-C106> 



RECENT POETRY 

Or burst in a green flame. . . . 
So, in a single night, 
Fair February came. 
Bidding my lips to sing 
Or whisper their surprise. 
With all the joy of spring 
And morning in her eyes. 

FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG 



-{:i07> 




SEA-FOAM 

FLECK of foam on the shining sand, 

Left by the ebbing sea, 
But richer than man may understand 
In magic and mystery — 
Transient bubbles rainbow-bright, 

Myriad-hued and strange, 
Tremble and throb in the noonday light. 
Flower and flush and change. 

A million tides have come and gone, 

Great gales of autumn and spring, 
A million summoning moons have shone 

To bring to birth this thing — 
A foam-fleck left on the ribbed wet sand 

By the wave of an outgoing sea. 
With all the colour of Faeryland, 

Wonder and mystery. 

TERESA HOOLEY 



-C108> 




A PETITION 

'LL that a man might ask, thou hast 
given me, England, 
Birth-right and happy childhood's 
long heart's-ease, 
And love whose range is deep beyond all 
sounding 
And wider than all seas. 

A heart to front the world and find God 
in it, 
Eyes blind enow, but not too blind to 
see 
The lovely things behind the dross and 
darkness. 
And lovelier things to be. 

And friends whose loyalty time nor death 
shall weaken. 
And quenchless hope and laughter's 
golden store; 

-C109> 



RECENT POETRY 

All that a man might ask thou hast given 
me, England, 
Yet grant thou one thing more: 

That now when envious foes would spoil 
thy splendour. 
Unversed in arms, a dreamer such as I 
May in thy ranks be deemed not all un- 
worthy, 
England, for thee to die. 

R. E. VERNEDE 



-C110> 



BLACK AND WHITE 

MET a man along the road 
To Withernsea; 
Was ever anything so dark, so pale 
As he? 
His hat, his clothes, his tie, his boots 
Were black as black 
Could be, 
And midst of all was a cold white face. 
And eyes that looked wearily. 

The road was bleak and straight and flat 

To Withernsea, 
Gaunt poles with shrilling wires their weird 

Did dree; 
On the sky stood out, on the swollen sky 
The black blood veins 

Of tree 
After tree, as they beat from the face 
Of the wind which they could not flee. 

-Clll> 



RECENT POETRY 

And in the fields along the road 

To Withemsea, 
Swart crows sat huddled on the ground 

Disconsolately, 
While overhead the seamews wheeled, and 
skirled 

In glee; 
But the black crows stood, and cropped 
where they stood, 

And nevei heeded thee, 
dark pale man, with the weary eyes, 

On the road to Withernsea. 

H. H. ABBOTT 



-{:ii2> 




THE OXEN 

;HRISTMAS eve, and twelve of the 
clock. 
"Now they are all on their knees," 
An elder said as we sat in a flock 
By the embers in hearthside ease. 

We pictured the meek mild creatures where 
They dwelt in their strawy pen. 

Nor did it occur to one of us there 
To doubt they were kneeling then. 

So fair a fancy few believe 

In these years! Yet, I feel. 
If someone said on Christmas Eve 

"Come; see the oxen kneel 

In the lonely barton by yonder coomb 
Our childhood used to know," 

I should go with him in the gloom, 
Hoping it might be so. 

THOMAS HARDY 

-ciis:}- 



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